


Sunset Over Sunrise Over Sunset

by florieneofthesea



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 02:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19219978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florieneofthesea/pseuds/florieneofthesea
Summary: In six months hell has surged from the depths and this, Daud knows, will end not in fire but flood. The city will drown slowly and surely, touch the bottom of the ocean in filth and blood, and he knows there's no one else to blame but himself.So things have to change.(Or, an AU where the Loyalists show their cards a little too early, and Daud finds himself host to one ex-Lord Protector, and one little Empress)





	Sunset Over Sunrise Over Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> I played Dishonored again for the first time in literal years and boy, do I have some feels, so here we go!

“I’m really sorry about this, Corvo.” 

He thinks he sees Samuel’s weather-worn face peering down at him, or maybe a sea god from the depths come to take his soul - not the Outsider, whose voice was no where near as comforting - but Corvo isn’t sure at all, given his senses are as muddy as the riverwater. 

“I gave you half a dose, there wasn’t much else I could do, they were watching me.” 

Black and green tinge his vision.  

“But I think you’ll make it out of this.” 

The only thing that occupies his thoughts as he slips away is _Emily._  

The first thing that he thinks of when he wakes is  _cold_.  

Corvo feels a cool stream running between the fingers of his marked hand, he imagines something scaly and sharp brush against them, but it’s gone as quick as it appears and he finds he has no strength to open his eyes, let alone move. But he is  _moving_ , somehow, there’s a slight wind that touches his skin and sifts through his clothes. A delayed moment later, his senses and thoughts link together, he’s adrift, and suddenly his memories are like the floodwaters of the Rudshore Financial District. 

In the span of a half a minute he gets three things straight: Emily is still missing, Havelock, Martin and Pendleton have betrayed him and there’s poison running in his blood. All three fill him with some measure of anger and frustration, how did he not see this coming? Twice then, in less than a year has he been left to die by the people he was led to trust. It’s this surge of spite and irritation that brings him to open his eyes, heavy and crusty as his eyelids may feel.  

The sky is a bleak grey, as it is most days in Dunwall and he’s not sure if that makes him any happier. It’s not a momentous occasion for the city at all, murder and betrayal are the bread and jellied eels of this place. The buildings rise upwards as ominous great teeth of some leviathan beast and here he is lying in wait for it to swallow him whole. 

Corvo heard a whisper of leaves. The boat rocks and his sleeves are now wet with river water. 

“What is it Rinaldo?” 

“The Masked Felon,” A shadow covered the sky and he stared into the glassy eyes of a whaling mask, “From all those wanted posters, Corvo Attano. Who would’ve guessed.” 

Another whisper of leaves and the boat shook again, more violently this time and the water splashed up to his elbow. Another whaler was perched on the small boat, kneeling to pick up the mask Piero fashioned. 

“We knew he got out of Coldridge.” 

“Didn’t think he’d have it in him though,” The first whaler, Rinaldo, came up closer, peering at him through the glassy mask, “Hey do you really think he’s the Empress’s father? The little one, Emily?” 

At her name Corvo felt a sharp pang of guilt and anguish and much as he wanted to jump up and wrangle them for information, to demand answers, his body refused to do much else apart from let him breath. His senses were starting to return to him, there was something jagged curing into his upper back and he let out an involuntary grunt at the discomfort, sending the first whaler skittering back in shock and the boat was set into a wild motion again. His upper arm was now drenched. 

“Fisher! Fisher he’s alive!” 

“What?” The second whaler disappears in a flurry of ash and materialises way too close for comfort. He feels leather fingers jab at him and move his face around, like a rag fool submitted for some cruel inspection.

Rinaldo edges forward only slightly, “Well?” 

“Poisoned,” The second one, Fisher? “Tyvian stuff, amateur work."

“So he’ll live then.” 

“That’s up to Daud.” Corvo didn’t have the strength anymore, his head was spinning. The world turned darker and darker and he heard one of the whalers mention that they should upgrade their own masks to look like Piero’s. Then he passes out. 

The next place he finds himself in is marginally more comfortable. It’s not wet for one, and there’s no drifting anymore. But it’s still cold, and the floor is wooden and rough and just as unforgiving as the boat. Nothing is stabbing him in the back this time though, he considers it a small blessing.  

Corvo feels no better internally though, his thoughts are sluggish again and he struggles to sit up. It’s as easy as escaping a school of hagfish and probably just as painful. He manages to prop himself up on an elbow to get a better look at the surroundings. There’s a sheet of fabric under him, a curtain, he scoffs at gaudy purple and pink colours. The room is bleak, and boarded up with rotten wood and cold stone. There are slim gaps in the wall across from him and a faint morning light trickles through. In one corner is a filing cabinet, in the other is half a dozen full length bookcases stocked to the brim with titles of all sorts. He thinks he sees the Daughter of Tyvia amongst them.  

There are no windows, the door is unguarded. Corvo instinctively leaps at the chance but as soon as he takes his weight off the elbow he comes crashing back down and snarls in frustration. The noise brings several people scrambling, two whalers materialise into the room and another one peeks in from around the corner of the broken doorway. 

“He’s awake,” One of them says, “Go get Daud.” 

 _Shit_ , Corvo’s suddenly fully aware of what’s going on. He’s stuck in Daud’s territory, in Daud’s base, surrounded by Daud’s men. The reality sinks in like an awful cold, and it’s replaced quickly by fury. After all he’s been through, coming so close to getting Emily back.

This is not where he will die.  

His Mark works fine, he finds as he Blinks straight into the closest whaler and bowls them over, heavy fingers scrambling for their sword and weapons. Corvo Blinks away again, into the hallway and crashes hard against the wall, stumbling into a standing position amidst some chaotic shouts and the sound of a bolt whistling past his ear. It splinters against the stone wall and Corvo finds his next target, an open window. He misjudges his distance, and finds himself outside, falling a short metre down before slamming against the tin roofing of the building and rolling towards the edge at a dizzying pace. Bile rises in his throat and he forces it down. There’s a ledge below him and he takes the chance, blinking to it. He lands much better this time, managing to keep balanced and lays a hand on the support beam to steady himself. Corvo is out of sight. There's no footsteps clamouring on the roof above, there's nothing, it's quiet, and unsettling. His harsh gasps for air are the only thing that signals life right now and it's a sure-fire beacon for trouble. Corvo calls on the Void one more time, grounding himself enough for the monumental effort, and time slows to a halt, a kingsparrow mid-flight somewhere to his left. 

He needs to get out of here. He needs to find Emily. 

Two storeys down is some wooden scaffolding left abandoned after the district flooded, beams leaning against the existing building, jutting from the murky waters and forming an eerie backbone. He makes his way down as quickly as he can, fighting the heaviness in his limbs. He passes two whalers on patrol, one crouching and overlooking the waterways and another leaning against the wall, oblivious to his presence. Corvo follows the scaffolding and disappears into the rubble, time runs its course again. 

Above, he hears shouts and the screech of the kingsparrow, below, the water slushes against the brick and rats scatter as he Blinks to a staircase. A distance away was a series of residences spanning beyond what he could see with his natural eyesight alone and he takes a chance. He needs to rest and recuperate. Corvo didn’t know how many whalers there were, they all looked the same and whatever detail from their voices was distorted by the masks. But they couldn’t search the entire district in one day. He’d give himself that then, twenty four hours to gather his strength and wits. It would be pointless if he found Emily and dropped dead a moment later. 

Corvo was eager to put as much distance between him and Daud’s assassins as possible but his condition was betraying that wish, his Blinking range became shorter and shorter with each passing second He crashed into an apartment, prying open the boarded up wood with the stolen sword and tumbling through, exhausted and aching. Whatever poison had been in his system, it didn’t jumble his mind at least, Corvo was grateful he could at least _think_. He’s not sure what kind they tried to murder him with but he thanks some providence that the _Loyalists_ weren’t alchemists or witches. He summons all his efforts to activate his Dark Vision - the room is empty, no rats or weepers above or below him - it’s safe. 

 _For now_ , he reminds himself, and let’s sleep take him. 

* * *

 

It’s evening when he wakes, the sun is in its last moments and casts a deep orange glow about the city. Corvo leaves just as it slips below the horizon, after scavenging for tinned food and risking the tap water in the flat below. Nothing too grandiose, canned whale meat and preserved Serkonan grapes. He finds himself missing the warmer weather of Karnaca, nothing was damp and mouldy there at least.  

Much of his strength has returned to him now, and he finds it absurd that so little can sustain him. His body had just _learned_ to function on scraps by now. He’s by no means in perfect condition, his legs are sore behind belief and his shoulder aches horridly, his fingers are cold and clammy and he wishes he’d invested in gloves some time ago. There’s nothing he can do now. Corvo considers it good fortune that the Outsider didn’t disturb his sleep. He needed that more than he could ever imagine. 

Corvo moves a little closer to the river, changing his hideout location. He needs a plan, he realises as he narrowly avoids a weeper den, and settles on one of the many airway ducts that track across the city. He needs to find Emily, but how? Corvo chews on some dried meat as he wracks his brain for answers. He battles down the burning frustration as he thinks of how the _Loyalists_ , so fluid in nature now, would know. They must know where she is, he realises, otherwise they wouldn’t have done _this._  So he has to find them then, the men he once thought he could trust. The ones he did trust, with his life, with Emily’s. He tosses the last piece of jerky, losing his appetite despite having little to eat at all.  

 _Where_? He asks himself, _the Hound Pits Pub_ , came the answer, followed by the counter-argument, blaring across the city-wide speakers. 

“Attention all Dunwall citizens, Lord Regent Farley Havelock has declared the Hound Pits Pub off limits to all civilians.” 

Corvo swears, a long stream of curses. 

“Corvo Attano, fugitive and assassin of the Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, has been spotted leaving that area. It is now under the protection of the City Watch. The newly appointed Lord Regent has a message.” 

He hunches over, pulling a knee to his chest and resting his forehead on it. Havelock’s voice booms across the empty district and it grates on his ears, lies, all of it, whatever it was. 

“Citizens of Dunwall, it is my duty now as Lord Regent to bring order to this city. You have all heard Hiram Burrows’ traitorous plans, how he has kidnapped Lady Emily for personal gain."  

He knows this game. It’s the one Burrows blatantly spoke to his face, months ago, in Coldridge with a burning metal poker pressed into his flesh. Corvo is racing against time then, they know where she is, they just need to wait for the right moment to present her, like a pig on a platter. After so much tragedy the people would buy into it, and who could blame them?   

"We are doing everything in our power to see to it that she is found, and reinstated into her rightful place on the throne. Long live the Empress.” 

It’s night now and Corvo forces himself to move but the rational part of him draws him to a halt. _What plan?_ Storm the place? With _what_ army? He laughs dryly, maybe if he had a few dozen copies of himself he could just tear the city apart searching. He could hunt Havelock, Pendleton and Teague. Simultaneously, he could put an end to this nightmare. If only he had– 

A path paved itself for him, built from tough leather and rubbery masks and punctuated by the scent of blood and a red coat.  Corvo dismisses the thought immediately, in no universe could he ever consider something so absurd. But even as he vehemently denies it, a fraction of him starts putting together a rational puzzle. If Daud wanted him dead he would be dead, he was defenceless and unconscious for the _better half of a day_ , if there was a time and place for his death, it would’ve been then. He’s not bleeding out though, he’s crouched on the edge of a building against rough brick walls, watching the moonlight catch onto ledges. His short-lived prison looked more like a library than a demoralising den, and his hands weren’t tied either. The only thing he might fault them for was taking his gear.  

 _Daud wanted him alive_ , a part of him speaks, _why_?  He shuts it down and slips into a little alcove, searching for passage to the railways that brought in corpses. Jessamine was _murdered_ by that man, that’s all the reason he needs to keep moving away.  

Corvo Blinks across the alleyway and peers over the rooftops, he sees what he think is the phosphorus glow of whale oil, but it’s far, so far. He sees only little bobbing glints and they could be stars for all he knows. He dredges up memories from before Dunwall sunk into half-ruin, trips to the Financial District discuss the distribution of tax money into new roads and better facilities. They didn’t come through the railways, there were none built back then, before the plague. The district used to be open, after the floods every major road was blocked up with steel walls that meant to stay up. There has to be something else, anything else. The whalers must be using some pathway to move across the city, what else was here? How did they move? 

Rats begins to devour a corpse below with intent, the squelching noise makes him shiver and he Blinks a little bit higher before he sees his answer. By the grey and brown swarm of vermin was the sewer drain, grate rusted and weak from all the rain. Corvo waits out the rats, wincing at the remains of the corpse, just bone and cloth now. There’s sewage running steadily under the grate and he debates if it’s wise to crawl in there, he kicks it open regardless, glancing around to make sure the noise hasn’t affected any unwanted attention. When he turns back to the sewer water it leaps at him, alive, brown malice with beady red eyes. 

  
_Rats_. 

Corvo snarls and leaps back, Blinking far back across the street and searching desperately for a perch as the army of rodents spills towards him. He picks a streetlamp just down the road and lands shakily, balancing precariously as the rats flow down the narrow street, no doubt looking for their next meal. He Blinks to steadier ground and catches his breath, wiping away sweat and pushing his hair out of his face. _Not the sewers then_ , he decides.  

The moon cast ghoulish shadows over the district and he sighs from his soul, time is running short. Havelock has the Overseers, the City Watch, the navy, all in the palm of his hands, he has the streets and the waterways and it’s only a matter of time before they find him, before they try their hand at pupeteering Emily. He brings his hands, clean as they can be though still grimy, and rubs his face.  

 _ou’re wasting time. You don’t know where she is. He might._  

Corvo thinks he heard the whalers mentioning a gate, and a key. It has to be close. But that key, he realises, he doesn’t have.  

 _He does though._  

Corvo’s heart sinks even as his hands steady. He’s low on options, evidently, seeing as this is his best plan. He turns himself back in the direction of the Chamber of Commerce, there’s business to be done. 

* * *

 

He does what the posters on the walls of Dunwall buildings says he does, he stalks the shadows of unsuspecting citizens. They’re whalers, this time, trained men, this time, but his method is no different, albeit a little rushed.  

Corvo sits in the shadows and hears the passing drizzle of voices, and he expects cruel laughter at gruesome details or gory recounts of recent jobs. He hears neither. He’s had the entire journey back to the Chamber of Commerce to plan his approach, but the moment he sees that colour, the vibrant red smeared against the backdrop of the district, the same red that coloured the ground of the pavilion, Corvo abandons his plans.  

The Outsider is laughing at him as he pulls on the Void and blinks straight into Daud, sword raised in the image of death’s scythe. They clash in the middle, and it’s the first note in a cacophony of others as the whalers in the area raise hell in response. A windblast sends them flying backwards into the bookshelves and the fight extends outside, in the light of the half moon.  

“Leave,” He hears Daud snap, and it takes a moment longer to realise it’s not directed at him. Corvo swings the stolen sword again and they cross crassly and break away.

The whalers surround them, they hesitate. Two disappear, three remain, “I said _leave_ ,” His tone brokered no argument and carried a threat. The rest departed, but they wouldn’t be far.  

Their loyalty might be admirable if the man they followed wasn’t a murderer. 

Daud is a good fighter, he recognises, and maybe years before in sunny Serkonos he would’ve welcomed a skilled opponent. Seventeen year old Corvo would love to talk over moves and footwork, compliment their choice of weapon or a dexterous movement. 

But Corvo has no real recollection of how the events play out, he hears everything a beat later and it crashes over his head as waves against rock. He just knows how to fight, how to _win_ and win he does. He slams into Daud and has him cornered into the decrepit white brick wall, barely a wall know and just a low ledge. Everything that has happened has happened because of _him._  

Corvo raises his sword. 

Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, tall and proud, face carved sweetly into marble stands vigilant in the background.  

The blade stops short at Daud’s throat, pressing hard enough for discomfort. He’s aware he’s rasping like a weeper right now, and every muscle in his body is tuned to just press, and cut the man’s veins open and let the red on his sword match the coat. But running at the forefront of his mind is now just one thing, the most precious person now in this grey Empire. 

“Emily,” Corvo rasps, “Where’s Emily?” 

“The Golden Cat.” He curls his lip in disgust, “No, I’ve checked, she’s not there, where is she?” 

“My role ended there, bodyguard.”

Corvo is horrified to note that he’s pleased to have somewhat injured the other man, who’s arm was at an awkward sort of angle now and bleeding fresh. He felt detached, a distant observer looking down for entertainment, “Then you’ll die.” 

There’s a scuffling from above and he thinks he sees some whalers grouped together but they’re out of sight.  

“Then I die. Make your choice.” 

These past eight or so months have been utterly hellish for him, and his patience and trust is running dangerously thin. Not once in those eight months did his blade draw blood. Corvo has been out to prove his innocence, not ravage the city. But Daud isn’t some unsuspecting City Watch guard, this man is a paid cruel killer and why not? Dunwall is down one more murderer and he has one less problem. What else has he to lose anyways? 

The answer comes bleakly from that same part of his mind that rationalised for him to come all the way back here. He sees Jessamine watching over him, he remembers Emily’s bright smile as she handed him drawings made with stolen Sokolov paints.  

“Can you find her?” He says. Daud straightens marginally, keeping pressure off his shoulders. Corvo finds no answers in the man’s steely grey eyes and he turns his questions to himself, to the heart tucked against his chest.  

 _His hands do violence,_ it says _, but there is a different dream in his heart._  

He's a desperate man, and desperate men do dastardly things. 

He presses harder, “ _Can you find her_ ,” an edge building in his words.

“I can.” 

Corvo almost sighs in relief, “Then _help me_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I actually didn't intend to include this part, but I figured this might give a little bit more justification for why Corvo's willing to team up with Daud. Thanks for reading!


End file.
